Eleven Stages of Love
by myloveriswriting
Summary: Experimental poetry of how Eros falls down for Psyche in Arabia. (I'll be updating it, it's v short)
1. Attraction

**_notes:_** ok i'm experimenting with poetry and greek/arabian folklore/mythology so here's part one!

* * *

 **1 – الْهَوَى _(hawa)_ = Attraction**

"This is the beginning of love. The root verb هَوَى is used to describe wind, meaning to blow, suggesting that this love can arise suddenly, but is transient, not yet firm in the heart. The verb also means both to rise and to fall, indicating the unstable nature of attraction, and the possibilities for how this love might develop."

* * *

The first form he takes is one of a young adolescent.

Light haired, green eyed, perfect human bone structure. He believed, that way people wouldn't approach him with hostility. And, he was _dead_ wrong. One glance upon his face had the city's fortune tellers began screaming that he was the devil; that such beauty _**can't**_ exist without a **price to pay.** Their intuition was somewhat correct. Eros never brought anything without certain unforeseen trouble. But, it nearly killed him.

So, he ran. Into the dark crowded market area for refuge with people who wanted nothing to do with him, trying to blend in with the folks.

"Damn," He would curse at his mother's name. He would yell into the night sky hit with cool desert air. "I'm done with this errand! Bring me back to Olympus." No answer. But he knew she was listening. And he could almost hear her reply clear as crystal.

 _Not until you are done with your mission._

So, he screams in rage, _I am so done-_ and does not pause even when he hears the inhabitants of the city in a far dim light, holding torches and knives. He thinks these people are insane. They didn't believe in the greeks; their gods or goddesses. Fools they were with no mercy to an angel without his wings. He was in the form of a shivering fourteen year old whose legs could not take him as far as he wished.

Then, he rushes into a palace. A beautiful palace withholding consequences of its own. And when he stumbles upon a garden with an abundance of fragrances, abrupt, a woman's eyes on him. His blood pressure rises,

"Are you lost?"

He's flushed in the face.

" _Sweetheart,_ where did you come from-"

Sounds of riots stand before the garden threatening to destroy the carefully cared for flowers. Shouts. Screams. Fire. They reach closer. And she stands before him, protecting him with a motherly gesture he is not familiar with and words he knows have dire consequences.

"Spare him, whatever he has done." And then, "He is my son."

Now, she's cursed.

 _Shame, shame on you,_ she'll be told for a long time. It's a lie, it's a lie that saves him. He wishes he had his wings back. Eros looks up and sees something fearless and different.

Her eyes.


	2. Attachment

**_notes:_ ** wh y am i still in love with Eros?

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 **2 –** **الْعَلاقَةُ** **('** _ **alaqah**_ **) = Attachment**

"Love now becomes attached to the heart, and loses the transitory property of _hawa_. This is from the verb عَلِقَ _to be attached to_ , _to cling to_ , as in عَلِقَ الشّوْكُ بالثَّوْبِ _the thorn clung to, got caught in, the garment_ , and similarly عَلِقَ حُبهَا بِقَلْبِه _love for her became attached to his heart_."

* * *

"Good morning," She would say to the plentiful trees and flowers in the lonesome garden. The sand on her feet and reflection in the water took his breath away. How _blessed_ those nymphs to have been that close to her, thought Eros whilst he sat concealed behind the dark ebony and green. He withdrew from the moon's sight, and sought to admire from afar.

It's been months since they're encounter and she's only known him as a child. He returns as an adult, so he hides.

He also knew this was better, after all, this was short-lived compared to the lifespan of a god. The hospitality she had given him was a merely on instinct. It had to be fleeting like wind and storm because changing one's destiny wasn't so easy. He, of all people, should've known that. But,

Eros was never good at listening.

All he knew was that he had to protect her. From everything. Accidents, bandits, humans, and now? Aphrodite.

A few days earlier she was given the title, _more beautiful than the goddess of love._ An unwanted title. Psyche, herself, even denied it. Since, he was in the area anyways, he was given a mission. A cruel mission.

Those orders he'd been given were cruel. He attempted it though by raising his arrow that somehow weighed in hundreds of stonewall bricks on his limbs. This was against everything he believed in; his mind almost screaming at him that his hands weren't meant to kill.

Aiming at her worsened it all because she stood _so_ still. She was a simple, foolish, easy target who would soon be victim to a life of misery. Could he have her fall in love with someone hideous and revolting inside and out? Did she deserve a life of abuse and wretched sobs for her beauty?

Did it matter?

Or could she run?

Far off where the envious love goddess could not find her.

And to protect her.

 _Could he?_

The rise and fall of his breath was unstable enough to follow through with these plans. Each and every story doesn't end well when you're against the gods. To make sure he didn't lie to himself, he'd say it was an accident when he missed. But, honestly, was it? Aphrodite wouldn't buy that.

This was a curse, this was detrimental, this was _not him._

And to think all it took was the rush of the wind that day, which had soon passed away before his eyes.

It's a faint encounter, but it's undeniable now.

" _Psyche,"_ _His heart now speaks in her language._


End file.
